


one for all

by brothermine, humanveil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Shotgunning, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 14:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothermine/pseuds/brothermine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: “You ought to share.”





	one for all

“You ought to share.” 

Mycroft’s on his back, laid out across the grass as Sherlock sits beside him: shoulders pressed to a tree trunk, one knee drawn to his chest, his arm resting across it as he holds the cigarette to his mouth. He inhales, exhales. Watches the smoke coil in the air and fade away to nothing. 

“Mm,” he responds, noncommittal. Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

Family gatherings are always tedious, but family gatherings when Sherlock is fresh out of rehab and Mummy has invited _others_ are downright unbearable. Mycroft had barely lasted minutes before his fingers had twitched, itching to reach for the phone and beckon a car back to London. It hadn’t taken much longer before they’d snuck away for a smoke, hidden in the gardens as the party continued inside. It’d been bad luck that he’d only had one left, and poor planning that Sherlock had got to it first. 

“Nine minutes,” Sherlock says around the cigarette, the words slightly muffled, “until someone comes looking.” 

“Fourteen,” Mycroft corrects. His finger curls around a strand of grass and plucks, pulling it from the earth before discarding it seconds later. “Father saw us leave.” 

Sherlock hums again, conceding easily for once in his life. “Probably thinks we’re having another row.”

Mycroft snorts. “As is tradition,” he says, and Sherlock’s lips twitch at the sides. Mycroft watches and swallows his own smile. Thinks, _if only they knew. _If only anyone had any idea just how _well_ they’ve been getting along since Sherlock’s discharge. 

But of course they don’t. It takes a Holmes to fool a Holmes, and he and Sherlock are the best of the best. 

Mycroft lifts a hand, long fingers slightly curled. _Expectant_. “Give it,” he orders, but Sherlock merely flicks the ash away. 

“No.” 

“Sherlock.” 

There’s a warning to it; one Sherlock ignores. He looks at Mycroft, shifts slightly closer. He puts the cigarette back between his lips and uses his free hand to catch Mycroft’s wrist, fingers dipping beneath the cuff of his sleeve, brushing across his pulse point. His smirk widens, his grin feral. Mycroft knows he noticed the slight acceleration. 

It takes only seconds for Sherlock to straddle him, his body moving with an elegant grace Mycroft is in awe of. A groan is pulled from his throat as Sherlock settles atop him, his little brother not quite as light as he looks. 

“What—” he starts to ask, but it’s as far as he gets. Sherlock is there, in the next second, one hand taking hold of his chin as the other holds the cigarette to the side. He leans down, leans close: their lips pressing together as Sherlock exhales the tobacco straight into Mycroft’s mouth. 

Mycroft inhales, though his reactions are slowed. Sherlock continues with the kiss and Mycroft settles his hands on his brother’s hips, fingers slipping beneath the hem of Sherlock’s shirt as his tongue meets Mycroft’s own: the taste of cigarettes and tea and saliva mixing together. Sherlock shifts, rolls his hips, his half-hard cock brushing against Mycroft’s crotch as he kisses until they’re both breathless. 

“Ten minutes,” Mycroft warns when he pulls away. It’s slightly strained: Sherlock an expert at cracking his control. 

The cigarette is brought to Mycroft’s lips this time, Sherlock rocking his hips as he watches his brother inhale. He leans forward again, mouth pressed to Mycroft’s as he exhales the smoke, his neatly-cut nails digging into the flesh of Sherlock’s waist. 

Mycroft feels him smirk against his mouth as he responds, “I only need seven.” 


End file.
